A Poem for Ronald
by Potter47
Summary: On Valentine's Day, Luna decides to write a poem.


"A Poem for Ronald"  
by Potter47

It was Valentine's Day and we were all still so young. The war wasn't real, that day—it was a lightning storm at the edge of the sky, so far away from our thoughts that we couldn't hear the thunder if we tried, if we used the world's longest pair of Extendable Ears. Even a Tailswinging Crumbumbler wouldn't have been able to hear it, and you know how excellent their ears can be—but then, I suppose we didn't have too many of those at Hogwarts, in those days.

At school, that day, our thoughts were all wrapped in pink and red, our hearts nothing more than decorated construction paper. What good was there to think about the war, when we could dream of some dashing young gentleman sweeping us off of our feet? Needless to say, all I thought about was Ronald—all Ronald thought about was Hermione—and all Hermione thought about wasn't important to me in the slightest.

And then there was Harry and Ginny, a shining example of everything we wished we were but couldn't quite manage. They weren't loud and boisterous about it or anything like that. They didn't kiss in front of us, or even put their arms around each other—they held hands, sometimes, but that was it. We could see it in their faces, though. They had something beautiful and they knew it.

It would snow, every once in a while—not very much, just little flurries of white you could hardly tell apart from the clouds they fell from. There wasn't any blue in the sky at all, that day, I remember that specifically. Perhaps this was because the universe recognized that there was already plenty of blue going around that day without the sky doing its part to help. Or perhaps the blue sky was out on a romantic date with its lover, the night.

I watched the snow out the windows of the Ravenclaw common room until the flurry subsided, and then since it seemed silly to watch an uneventful sky that wasn't even very beautiful, I decided to write a poem:

_Oh Ronald, oh Ronald, you've got me all caughtled  
__in butterfly nets you don't realize you've wroughtled!  
__Yes I'm stuck in your trap like a captured Snorkack  
__(if Snorkacks were capable of being trapped  
__which they're not, as I know very well from last summer  
__(although Daddy and I found a Summertime Hummer!  
__(a magical beast that can hum such a tune  
__you can't help but feel like you're in love in June!  
__(a feeling I've known since I first saw your face  
__(at the Gryffindor table, staring out into space  
__like a wonderful Wimbly all cute and confuzzled  
__(or a beautiful banshee whose mouth has been muzzled)  
__and I couldn't breathe, like I'd chewed Gillyweed,  
__and I loved you like Muggles believe birds love bees  
__(which has never in fact to me made too much sense  
__but neither does love (and I have loved you thence.)))))))_

Having written such a poem (one of my better ones, in my opinion) it seemed rather silly to me to keep it to myself—and so I decided to give it to Ronald, consequences be darned. I stood from my table near the window and headed out of the common room to find him; it occurred to me that I had no idea at all where he might be. I didn't know where the Gryffindor common room was hidden, and even if I did, I most likely would not have been able to figure out the password (although I am a pretty good guesser, I have to admit—I have managed to guess my way into Professor Dumbledore's office on more than one occasion). Rather than wander the halls aimlessly—a perfectly respectable pastime on an ordinary afternoon, but certainly not on Valentine's Day—I figured that the reasonable thing to do would be to ask Harry or Ginny where Ronald was, as I knew very well that the two of them would be in Hogsmeade celebrating the holiday together.

The walk down to the village passed with surprising swiftness—as though my determination, my mission, my purpose propelled me along like a sailboat in tremendous winds, or like a hungry Wangdoodle in sight of a field of perfectly defenseless Snozzwangers. Nothing could stop me—or rather, it couldn't, as I encountered nothing the entire time and it didn't slow me down one bit.

In the village, I checked each shop one by one, unsure of where Harry and Ginny might be—I tried Honeydukes, and the Hog's Head, and even Zonko's, even though it was closed (you never know where lovers might be hiding, after all) and then finally a particularly strong gust of wind blustered me into the Three Broomsticks, and there they were: dancing in the most heartbreakingly adorable fashion in the middle of the room, to a quiet little love song being played on the wireless. I wanted so badly to know what it would feel like, to dance like that—I had danced in the past, of course, but there's something very different about dancing with somebody you love and dancing with a friend, or dancing with yourself. Part of me thought it would be a terrifically terrible thing to interrupt them, but I had my mission, and so started dancing a little bit by myself, sidled up next to them, and tapped Ginny on the shoulder.

"May I cut in?"

The two of them looked entirely perplexed at my intrusion, but not in an angry way or anything like that. They just had not been expecting it; I can't say that I blame them.

"Er—sure," said Harry, and he passed Ginny's hands onto my own, and without missing a beat (literally, of course, since we were dancing, after all) Ginny and I were dancing and Harry had gone to the bar to order a couple of butterbeers.

"So—what's up, Luna?" Ginny said, still confuzzled.

"I had a question," I said. "I was wondering if you knew where Ronald might be; I have something I'd like to give him."

"Not—not a Valentine?" said Ginny, sounding slightly worried.

"No, of course not," I said, dipping her elaborately to the music. "A poem."

Ginny sighed. "Luna, I'm not sure if that's the best idea. We've talked about this before… I don't want you to get hurt."

"That's perfectly understandable," I said. "I will do my best not to stub my toes on my way to him. But you haven't said where he is?"

"I suppose there won't be any changing your mind, then?"

"Nope," I said, twirling.

"He said he was going to the Quidditch pitch," said Ginny. "I don't know if he's still there."

"Thank you," I said. "And happy Valentine's day."

Ginny smiled, and I hugged her, still moving my toes to the music, and then I left, almost-running the entire way back from Hogsmeade. When I reached the pitch, it had just begun to snow again—light, like before, almost painfully light. I felt so alive that it should have been thumping sleet against my chest as I walked, I thought—or it could have been rain, pouring down against my skin and making the ground all squelchy under my feet. Something more dramatic would have been more appropriate—for I was about to tell Ronald how I felt.

And when I was finally there, so was he: flying high in the air like he was riding on one of Cupid's arrows. And then, all of a sudden, the lightness of the snow wasn't so bad anymore—it was beautiful, framing him, dancing white freckles on his whole body to compliment the ones on his face.

He didn't notice me, but I was used to that. I took the piece of parchment I'd written my poem on, folded it into the shape of an airplane, touched it with my wand and whispered a few words—it took off into the air, gaining speed and altitude as it approached him. I could hardly see it within a few moments, but when it reached him, I could tell, as when it poked him in the back of the head he jerked wildly about. I chuckled—he was so adorable when he was surprised, even if he was just a speck in the sky.

He took the plane and unfolded it, balancing his broom in the air as he did so—I could imagine the precise look on his face, the furrowed brow, the sweet confuzzlement. And then, a minute later, he was flying again, to the ground, to where I was standing. He climbed off his broom and looked at me with the most loveably apologetic eyes, his mouth so lovely as it fumbled for words:

"I don't—Luna—I'm—I'm sorry, I don't think of you like that. You're a really great girl and everything but—I fancy somebody else, actually—I'm—I'm sorry—"

"I know that," I said, smiling. "But I love you. And I thought you should know."

Fin.


End file.
